


“A guy’s gotta be true to something, even if it’s only himself” or Five Events that Helped Papyrus Realize He’s A Masochist (and one time sans “helped”)

by SympatriCuckoo



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Bloodplay, Ectobreasts, M/M, Major pov and tone shift in the +1 section, Masochism, Play piercings, Temporary Piercings, but could also be noncon, could be dubcon, dislocations, ectodick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-25 09:05:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7526716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SympatriCuckoo/pseuds/SympatriCuckoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A case study of masochistic tendencies in a skeleton from a young age: course and development.</p>
<p>Or: Five times detailing Papyrus' exploration of his masochist side +1 instance in which Sans lent a hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	“A guy’s gotta be true to something, even if it’s only himself” or Five Events that Helped Papyrus Realize He’s A Masochist (and one time sans “helped”)

**Author's Note:**

> Finally brave enough to post this here. 
> 
> Title is a quote from Lobo.
> 
> Info on play piercing taken from the Pervert’s Library.
> 
> I had a lot of fun with the +1 bit. There’s a little that’s inspired by Zelazny.
> 
> Inspired by @rksins‘ art and also the art by @shslfyjoshi .

1.

  
Papyrus was seven years, three months and twenty five days old when he learned to ride a bike.

  
“-and I’ll be right behind you, so don’t worry,” Sans was saying.

  
Papyrus half-listened, tuning out Sans’ protective rambling. He fiddled with the straps of his helmet, staring at the bike. It was new, painted a rich, bright orange with little flame decals on the sides. It looked expensive – it was; Sans had scrupulously saved up for it. And it looked fast. In his mind’s eye, he pictured himself riding through Snowdin, the wind rushing through his hair as monsters stopped and stared at Papyrus, the world famous cyclist.

  
“Ready?” Sans’ voice popped the daydream.

  
“I WAS BORN READY!”

  
Sans stood behind the bike, steadying it as Papyrus pushed forward and started to pedal. For the first few yards, it went well. Papyrus felt confident and in control, the world around him fresh and vibrant as the colors of the usual scenery blurred together into new shades.

  
And then Sans let go. 

  
Between the forward momentum and his exhilaration, Papyrus didn’t notice immediately. It was as he was slowing down, as he shifted his weight to pedal, to go faster, that he unbalanced.

  
The bike listed to one side, and Papyrus swung more of his weight to the other pedal, hurriedly trying to rebalance himself.

  
No good.

  
He put too much force behind the other pedal, and what started as a little wobble ended in a sudden crash that neither Papyrus nor Sans had seen coming.

  
“Papyrus!” Sans was there in the blink of an eye, kneeling on the ground.

  
There were cuts and scrapes on Papyrus’ hands, elbows and knees, and he was covered in snow and bits of gritty dirt. His tears weren’t due to pain, which he felt as more of an afterthought than anything else, but rather shock and adrenaline which prickled underneath his bones, making his body feel several sizes too small.

  
“Oh no, Paps. It’ll be okay. C’mon.”  
He was lifted up; Sans smiled at him through his worry and teleported them both home. The kitchen was the same as they had left it that morning, dishes still drying in the rack. Sans set Papyrus down on the kitchen counter next to the sink and rummaged around underneath, searching for the first aid kit.

  
“WH-WHAT ABOUT THE BIKE?” Papyrus managed between sniffles. He’d hate to think of how disappointed Sans would be if it was damaged or stolen.

  
“You’re more important than the bike,” Sans said firmly. “Hold still. This is going to hurt. But it’ll be okay. You’re okay.”

  
Papyrus hissed, but stayed still. The water stung as it flowed over abraded bone, and where Sans had to dig to get out all of the gravel and soil it felt a little like being slapped with brambles.

  
“You’re being so good, Paps. Really brave!"

  
Done with his knees and his elbow and working on his hands, Papyrus started to whimper, little pained whines high in his throat as Sans resorted to using a pair of tweezers to remove the ground-in dirt.

  
“It’s okay. I’ve got you. Almost there…and you’re going to feel so good, so much better once everything is done!

  
After, sitting on the couch with his second bowl of nice-cream, Papyrus still hurt. But he also felt relieved and, most of all, loved.

  
2.

  
The kitten was a tiny thing: a little ball of fuzz topped with big blue eyes and giant ears. It was cute and mildly goofy looking, and when Papyrus reached out a finger the kitty snatched and enthusiastically chewed it.

  
Papyrus fell in love immediately.  
He smuggled her back home, trying his best to anticipate Sans’ reaction, planning his own defense and a list of reasons on why having a kitten in their lives would benefit everyone. It was both a welcome relief and an anti-climatic letdown when it turned out Sans wasn’t home. Regardless Papyrus took advantage of the opportunity, grabbing some boxes and as many towels and rags and blankets as he felt wouldn’t be missed.

  
It was only when he had finally sequestered himself in his room, door closed and locked for the first time in forever, that he relaxed. The kitten scampered around, bounding about like a rabbit while Papyrus set up her bed. And when he was finished, he picked up the kitten and cuddled her.

  
The kitten purred, vibrating softly in his hands, seemingly appreciating having the backs of her ears rubbed, eyes closing in contentment. She stayed like that for a minute, enjoying the attention, before, in true kitten fashion, becoming bored. She clambered out of his hands, trying to climb his sweater and his arms. Papyrus let her, one hand spotting her as she made her way upwards towards his shoulder.

  
It was a relief when she made it. Papyrus released a breath he hadn’t even known he was holding. Great! Now she could just sit there and-

  
She did not just sit there. She sniffed around before walking along the tops of his shoulder blades. Papyrus panicked as the kitten walked out of his sight. He was suddenly very aware of his body. Could feel little feet walking along his bones. Could feel the way they were uncertain, trying to navigate gently curved planes.

  
Paralyzed with indecision, he wanted nothing more than to reach back and grab her; was afraid that any movement might cause the kitten to tumble to the floor. Slowly, very slowly, he started to reach up.

  
The kitten slipped. Sharp claws dug into bone as it scrambled to hold on. Papyrus stopped, fighting down a shudder as pain shot through him, like little needles perforating through the sensitive, exposed back of his neck. This was the first time that he could recall anything other than himself and his clothes touching him there, and he was mortified that he felt vague arousal.

  
The kitten righted herself and she shifted from foot to foot, claws still out as she tested her balance before continuing. With each step, Papyrus endured sharp digging pain coupled with the soft, tickling glide of fur. It was uncomfortably erotic, and Papyrus wondered what’s wrong with him, why he was finding this arousing even as he cataloged the sensation, storing it away for later.

  
Finally, finally! The kitten was on his other shoulder, and Papyrus wasted no time in grabbing the kitten and introducing her to her new bed.

  
When he wasn’t allowed to keep the kitten, he was disappointed and sad and guiltily relieved.

  
3.

  
Anime night with Undyne and Alphys was something of a Friday night ritual by now.

  
Papyrus sat on the end of the couch holding a forgotten bowl of popcorn. Undyne and Alphys cuddled, more interested in each other than in the show, which played on in the background.

  
It was one of Undyne’s picks: an anime about samurai and aliens - an action-adventure comedy. It was a little too random and ridiculous for his tastes, the dialogue too laden with puns (albeit in a foreign language).

  
On screen a purple-haired ninja ripped off her training gi to reveal a black, leather corset as she begged to be hit.

  
Feelings jumbled through him, unvoiced and half unacknowledged, and at the forefront: is she the same as me?

Papyrus asked the question before he could really think about it, curiosity and the need to know eating at him. “WHAT IS SHE DOING?”

  
The other two looked up and over, staring, and Papyrus blushed. Please don’t let them ask why, he begged silently.

  
Undyne’s shock morphed into a leer. “Awww, you’re blushing!”

  
“I-I AM NOT!”

  
“And now you’re flustered!”

  
“I AM MERELY CONFUSED!”

  
“Does someone have the hots for Sa-chan?”

  
“OH MY GOD! NO!!”

  
Undyne looked thrilled, a wide grin stretching across her face. Papyrus was mortified. He wished he had Sans’ teleport magic. Failing that, it’d be convenient for the couch to eat him and put him out of his misery. Was the answer really worth this?

  
Undyne grinned maniacally. Papyrus braced himself for more teasing. When Undyne got like this…

  
Alphys cleared her throat. “It’s called masochism.”

  
Papyrus grasped onto Alphys answer like someone dehydrated would a glass of water. “WHAT’S THAT?”

  
Undyne sat back against the cushions and watched Alphys gesticulate.

  
“It’s when someone finds pain pleasurable.”

  
“THERE’S A NAME FOR THAT?”

  
“Oh yes! It’s supposed to be very popular.”

  
Papyrus mulled this over. On the laptop, the shogun was forced to buy underwear while naked. “HOW DO YOU KNOW? ARE…YOU ONE?” he asked eventually, blush returning full-force.

  
Alphys’ blush rivaled Papyrus’. “Oh, no! But there’s lots of it on the Internet.”

  
“OH.”

  
“Yeah.”

  
Papyrus and Alphys both stared fixedly at the laptop, not to watch the program but to avoid each other’s eyes.

  
Undyne leaned over and snorted when she saw their mortification. “You nerds,” she said, affectionately.

  
4.

  
It had been weeks since Papyrus had first heard about masochism, and he still only knew what Alphys had told him that night.

  
It wasn’t that he didn’t want to search it! He did! But, well. He’d been busy, right? There are so many things to do above ground. And then there are the things to do around the house; goodness knows Sans would be terrible with a vacuum, and dusting would likely end terribly. Mops would probably confuse him. 

  
He just. Just.

  
Just.

  
Papyrus sat, staring unseeingly at his computer screen.

  
Alright, so he might be a little concerned about popping the term into a search engine.

  
What if it turned out that masochism was a bad thing? Like a criminal thing. Or a deviant thing. It certainly seemed like it might be bad. Alphys had seemed uncomfortable talking about it, and the characters on the show had reacted badly.

  
Or what if it meant there was something wrong with him? He didn’t know anyone who liked hurting themselves. And usually the body and brain usually prompted people to avoid painful things, so maybe it was a symptom of some illness, of Falling Down or something equally as deadly.

  
On the other hand, it’d be nice to be able to label it, to say “This is what I am” and not have to deal with the nebulous uncertainty surrounding all these questions; to not have so much shame and guilt over it.

  
But what if it didn’t describe what he was? What he experienced?

  
Possibly that was what bothered Papyrus the most with a nagging, niggling worry. And maybe that was the reason why he’d been so busy. The bathroom probably didn’t need to be cleaned twice a day (once a day was probably enough for good luck).

  
Steeling himself, he opened the search engine, keys plunking rhythmically. Resolutely, he spelled what he hoped to be the answer to his lifelong question, each letter weighty with years of furtive caution. The click of the enter key was like the fall of a gavel.

  
Page upon page of results were generated with millions of results.

  
With shaking fingers, Papyrus clicked the first link.

  
5.

  
Papyrus runs home, a nondescript brown bag clutched in his arms.

  
He’s excited. The others on the forum had suggested some…items to use, something besides poking old bruises and soaking wounds in salt water. He can’t wait to try them, to experience some new stimulation.

  
Refusing to put down the bag, he fumbles with the door, dropping his keys. The door opens as he’s bent over.

  
“Hey, Paps,” Sans greets, eying the bag with interest.

  
Papyrus plays it cool. “SANS! WHAT A SURPRISE TO SEE YOU HERE!”

  
“…I live here. You know, with you.” Sans’ raised eyebrow suggests that maybe he isn’t being subtle.

  
“INDEED, I DO KNOW!” Papyrus says with false cheer. “I TIDY UP AFTER YOU ALL THE TIME!”

  
Papyrus fights the urge to fidget. Sans’ eyes are drawn to the bag as it crumples in Papyrus’ hands, clenched as though to stop someone from wrenching it away. Noticing his gaze, Papyrus loosens his grip; places one hand on a hip and moves the bag just slightly to the side. His stance is open and honest. It screams, “Nothing to hide here!”

  
Now if only Sans would believe it.

  
Sans’ gaze is inscrutable, blank and calm. Papyrus sweats, recalling the countless times in the past Sans had used that same look to get Papyrus to confess to his pranks. He knows he’s acting oddly, knows that Sans is suspicious but doesn’t really have proof of anything. But that gaze, it’s like a mirror or a blank sheet of paper and Papyrus can’t help but want to write down his own guilt in defiance of the terrible emptiness. To see something reflected there.

  
“NOW, IF YOU’LL EXCUSE ME,” Papyrus gingerly inches his way past Sans. “I HAVE SOME THINGS TO PUT AWAY.”

  
As he makes his way to his room, he feels Sans’ gaze on him all the while.

  
~*~

  
The room smells clinical, the scent of isopropyl alcohol hanging in the air.

  
Papyrus sits on the floor of his bedroom, naked and facing his closet mirror. A bottle of rubbing alcohol and a roll of paper towels lie next to him. One sheet has been torn off and placed on the floor. Cotton balls are piled in one corner. Twenty hypodermic needles are arranged in neat horizontal rows, the bag they’d come in pressed into service as a garbage can.

  
Papyrus finishes sterilizing his breasts, idly tweaking a nipple as he consults a printout.

  
_“Don’t forget to adjust the thermostat before you play. Pain processing is more difficult for the bottom if they are cold. Keep in mind that the bottom is likely (hopefully?) at least partially undressed and will be more sensitive to cold temperatures.”_

  
That’s easy enough. Skin isn’t something that comes naturally to skeletons, and experiencing temperature only happens when a skeleton is making a concentrated effort, skin or no skin. It takes a lot of magical energy and great attention to detail to manifest the nerve endings for hot and cold, and he and Sans don’t bother. It’s tiring and, even though he’s been working on his endurance, he still finds sustained conjurations difficult to maintain.

  
He rereads the section on piercing, paying careful attention to the portions he had highlighted. When he feels he’s ready - when his hands are no longer shaking, not from fear or nervousness, but from excitement - he grasps his right breast, holding it steady, and picks up a needle with his left. The needle parts his flesh painlessly, effortlessly, and it’s something of a letdown when he realizes that it’s over, that so far all he feels is an odd pressure. 

  
Maybe his body just needs time to adjust.

  
It’s more difficult to pierce his left breast, fine motor coordination poorer on his non-dominant hand, but he manages, again a little too easily.

  
He sits there disappointed and vaguely unsatisfied.

  
He glances down. He still has eighteen…  
Blood flows as he grips his breasts again. The second set of piercings hurt as they pass through, jostling the original needles. Papyrus relishes in the pain, aroused and so far satisfied with his experiment. When he’s done with this pair, when the pain has started to subside leaving only an soothing ache, he takes his time cupping and massaging his chest.

  
Pain blossoms anew and blood rolls down the curves of his breasts like milk. It pools in his cleavage and Papyrus drags his fingers through it leaving tacky streaks over his bones.

  
He’s playing with his blood, watching his reflection in the mirror as he smears it on his face like makeup, when Sans interrupts, teleporting in.

  
It takes a while to calm Sans down.

  
It takes even longer for Sans to understand.

  
+1.

  
Sans sits by Papyrus’s bed.

  
It’s almost like a normal night: he’s here in his customary chair; Papyrus is in bed; Fluffy Bunny is even on the floor, waiting to be read.

  
Papyrus holds out his hand. He’s steady, expectant. ~~Waiting for a story.~~ Waiting for Sans to hurt him.

  
Trembling, Sans reaches, encircling the slim wrist _to prevent Papyrus from pulling back, stars what is he doing?_ and pushes against the middle finger.

  
“Do you-” Sans coughs. His throat feels so dry. “Do you want a warning-like a countdown?”

  
“NO, THANK YOU. I WANT IT TO BE A SURPRISE.”

  
Wonderful.

  
Some of his ~~terror~~ ~~disbelief~~ ~~unwillingness~~ dismay must show because Papyrus scoots closer, presses their foreheads together. 

  
“I TRUST YOU, SANS. WILL YOU TRUST ME WHEN I SAY THAT I WANT THIS?”

  
Sans closes his eyes, gathers all of his resolve. “Alright,” he whispers and, before he could lose his nerve entirely, forces Papyrus’ finger back, sharply.

  
There’s a painful sounding popping noise, and Papyrus hunches forward. Tears drip onto Sans’ shoulder and arm, pattering onto their joined hands. Papyrus’ features are contorted into a rictus of agony.

  
Sans starts to let go...

  
Papyrus’ uninjured hand shoots out, holding Sans in place, stopping his retreat. He looks up, eyes pleading, tears glistening, unshed. “PLEASE, SANS. MORE?” He holds Sans’ hand in place, keeps Sans’ grip tight around his own hand, uses him to inflict more pain on himself.

  
Sans holds still.

  
“SANS. SANS. SANS. SANS.” His name is breathed against the side of his neck, moaned exhalations punctuated by little sickening, wet pops of distressed cartilage that Sans both hears and feels. He tries his best to keep his expression neutral, to maintain his usual poker face, and while he knows he’s not succeeding, he can’t really give a damn about that because he feels sick, so sick…

  
“Papyrus. Wanna leave the other hand? You seem really worn out.” He can’t help the hopeful lilt to his voice. Surely this is enough for Papyrus. It’s certainly enough for Sans.

  
Papyrus must hear Sans’ tone, must have interpreted it correctly because he pulls Sans close again, grabs a fistful of hoodie and holds tight. “YES, SANS. I AM. BUT THAT’S WHY YOU HAVE TO KEEP GOING.”

  
_Keep going._

  
In his mind’s eye, Sans pictures a bike, a long stretch of road

  
a red scarf, dusty, fluttering forlornly in the cold breeze

  
the hallway bathed in golden light and the hard press of no options

  
tears and worry and self-castigation, disappointment in himself

  
feelings of emptiness - nothing nothing nothing there

  
he’d kept going, not because he wanted to

  
but because he could fix it

  
but because there was nothing left-a screaming void

  
but because that was the only way for them to reunite.

  
Sans reaches for Papyrus’ other hand, starts bending the index finger back.

  
If he was too late?

  
If he’d been earlier?

  
If he stopped now?

  
_**If he stopped now?** _

  
Papyrus looms over him, frowns down at him, disappointed. “SANS…DON’T YOU LOVE ME?”

  
With the snap of his wrist, Sans dislocates Papyrus’ other finger, then lets go, dropping Papyrus’ hand like it burns.  
He watches in disbelief as Papyrus props himself up and grinds the heel of his palm against his cock. It looks painful. It probably is, but Papyrus masturbates with every hint of enjoyment, the growing wet spot on his pajamas attesting to his pleasure in spite of, because of, the pain in his every movement.

  
Sans should look away; he doesn’t. Watches Papyrus’ hands, fingers crooked and starting to swell, as he strokes himself roughly. Watches as Papyrus brings a shaking hand to his mouth and bites down on the joint just under the dislocation.

  
Sans moves without thinking, reality moving around him like treacle. He can’t believe what he’s seeing, hearing. He needs proof, needs to touch to make sure this is really happening.

  
He reaches up and pulls the finger out from between clenched teeth. One hand clenches around the second joint, squeezing the bite marks. His other hand grasps the crumpled joint, pushing against the unnatural bend and then pulling straight. There’s a pop as the joint relocates. Sans recoils from the feeling.

  
“You’re doing great,” Sans soothes, “You’re bearing it so well.” He murmurs reassurances, finds it calming, and he continues to speak, not so much for Papyrus but for himself.

  
Head thrown back, Papyrus gasps and moans. Sans reaches down to Papyrus’ other hand, covering it with his own, finger over finger, and squeezes. There’s a crunch of cartilage, and Sans can feel the tremors racking Papyrus’ body, can feel the taut line of tension in his bones as Papyrus comes, damp warmth seeping through cotton and making their hands sticky.

  
Papyrus sinks back into his bed, looking as exhausted as Sans feels. And he wants to leave, for this to be over so he can go to his own room and drink himself to sleep, but there are still things to tidy up, to put away, to make right, and it seems unfair to have Papyrus do it, especially when Sans is desperate for a distraction.

  
It’s a matter of only a second to relocate Papyrus’ other finger, the snap of realigned joints loud in the tired silence, and Sans relaxes marginally when it’s done. It’s over now but for the fallout. 

  
Operating on autopilot, Sans tucks Papyrus into bed, folding the blankets over and around him, tucking it under his torso and under his arms. He doesn’t look up at Papyrus’ face, not fully anyway. From the corner of his eyes, he catches the bottom half of Papyrus’ face, sees Papyrus watching him with a small but genuine smile.

  
Sans hates that smile, Sans loves that smile. Wants to yell and shake it off. Wants to bask in it, delight in it. Would like nothing more than to see it disappear and never have to do this again. Would do anything to cause it and have it stay there.

  
Sans ignores the turmoil, leans over to buss the top of Papyrus’ head, turns off the light.

  
“THANK YOU,” Papyrus whispers, nothing but a vague outline in the dark. “I LOVE YOU.”

  
Sans shudders. “I know. I love you, too.”

 

 


End file.
